


ternion

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biggs Lives AU, Extra Treat, M/M, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-29 17:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8498911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: When they got to the ready room and Luke made an immediate beeline toward Biggs, Wedge knew it was more than just a world of hurt he was letting himself in for. Much more. Unusual given how often he’d had partners break up with him for not feeling enough for them. You prefer that damned ship of yours to me, they’d said, more than one of them, more than once. This was maybe the first time he resented that fact, if only because he wouldn’t be in this predicament at all if that was true.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yunmin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yunmin/gifts).



**Before**

“Hey, Biggs,” Wedge said, yelling at his friend as he climbed into the cockpit of his X-wing, Biggs doing the same with his, a grin on his face as he lifted his head in acknowledgment. He mouthed ‘yeah’ at Wedge, lips as soft around the words as his smile, his amusement, is. Biggs was like that though. Always chipper, always happy, always a little bit softer than the rest of them. Maybe it was just because he was still pretty new, but Wedge just suspected that was how he was—a good man, genuinely good. Wedge remembered being like that. Sometimes he still was. But sometimes he wasn’t. “Bet you I can beat you in practice today.”

“You’re on,” Biggs said. He didn’t yell back—Biggs wasn’t the sort to yell—but he did add, “What’s the wager?”

Pausing, Wedge thought about it for a minute. The usual was taking on the winner’s chores for a night, pulling double duty in the latrines or—wherever. Most people didn’t take Wedge up on his bets these days, mostly because they didn’t want to clean up the flight ready room for him or file his paperwork. But Biggs hadn’t had time to learn yet: Wedge never lost a bet.

Maybe it was unscrupulous, what he was doing, even though betting against his recruits often brought the best out of them, got them trained up all the quicker. It was why he started doing this in the first place. If maybe he was using this technique to flirt, that was his business. And Biggs’s, if he wanted it to be.

You never knew when you were on your way out when you worked for the Rebellion. If you didn’t take what pleasures you could find when you found them, you might not have time later. And Biggs seemed like a nice guy on top of all that goodness. Wedge wanted to get to know him.

Besides, if Biggs wanted to agree to a bet without finding out the wager first, well. That was his fault really. “How about a drink?” he asked.

Biggs screwed up his mouth, thoughtful, nodding slowly. “On me?”

“No.” Wedge smiled, bright with pleasure at the flicker of surprise and confusion that settled on his face at Wedge’s response. “Drinks on me.”

Opening his mouth, he furrowed his brow. Then his eyes lit up with understanding. He winked and nodded and ducked his head before jamming his helmet on his head. “Sounds like a deal I can live with.”

Biggs actually ended up coming close to beating him, S-foil to S-foil until the end.

Right up until he pulled up on the throttle.

It was probably the most flattering win Wedge had had the pleasure of earning in a long time. Even if Biggs had given it to him.

Told him everything he needed to know about this particular gamble anyway. If that meant winning on a technicality, so be it.

**After**

Biggs all but launched himself out of his cockpit, throwing himself into the morass of celebrating bodies, dark-haired head scanning the crowd for one person in particular. Wedge knew who it was. And it wasn’t Wedge.

Wedge instead remained behind in his X-wing for a while longer, breath coming in wild, ragged pants, harsh to his ears in the sealed pocket of silence that his own cockpit formed. He hadn’t removed his helmet yet and he let his eyes fall closed, willing himself to stop—just for a moment, to calm down, to quit fidgeting so damned hard against his harnesses. But he could argue with himself all he liked, his fingers still shook.

That had never happened to him before. Not like this anyway.

Peering through the transparisteel viewport, Wedge watched the joy with which the others greeted one another, small pools of people hugging—probably yelling—laughing, throwing arms around shoulders, crying joyfully.

And there, nearby, hanging out under the protective canopy of some ugly old YT-1000 freighter, stood Biggs. And Luke. Along with Princess Leia as well as a man he didn’t know, but recognized as Corellian based on the bloodstripes on his pants. Couldn’t be all bad if he had those, but Wedge still didn’t like it. Some _guy_ just showing up out of nowhere at the last second like that. Where had he been when—

_No, don’t think like that, Wedge._

They—all four of them—looked so happy, Biggs tucking Luke against his side.

Wedge felt nothing but shock. And gratitude. Of all the close calls he’d ever experienced… nothing quite matched this one. He felt so much shock and gratitude that he still couldn’t move, not until he heard the slap of a palm against the nose of his ship and then the rocking, metallic noise of hands and feet on the ladder.

A head popped up and tapped on the transparisteel. A blond head. An incredible, frustrating, brazen blond head that tilted slightly while his fingers motioned for Wedge to pop the cockpit.

Which, of course, Wedge did.

Only to have Luke Skywalker—destroyer of Death Stars—cross his arms and lean in. “You’re gonna miss the party,” he said, pushing himself even further into Wedge’s space. “What are you doing up here?”

Flicking a switch at random, Wedge shook his head, groaned with feigned annoyance. “Had a little drag on the sublights up there.” Swallowing, he pressed at another button. Luckily, Luke hadn’t had enough time to learn enough about an X-wing to know he was doing absolutely nothing to or about the sublights. “Thought I’d run a diagnostic check.”

Luke arched his eyebrow, suspicious, but nodded his acceptance of the explanation anyway. Probably he was wondering how a guy fighting drag in a space battle managed to avoid getting shot down, but Wedge couldn’t say for sure what Luke was thinking about it. “You want some help?”

What the hell was in the water on Tatooine that made the men from there so nice, so genuine? Wedge couldn’t guess, but he was fairly certain it would drive him to distraction and leave him in dire straits if he let himself be moved by it.

Wait, Tatooine was a desert planet, right? They didn’t have water—or much of it.

Maybe it was the sand that did it.

“No,” Wedge replied, sharp. Then, more appropriate, “No. It’ll hold.” He shoved at Luke’s shoulder. “Tell me more about this ‘party’ I’m gonna miss. Sounds fascinating.”

Luke rolled his eyes and grabbed Wedge by the sleeve of his flight suit. “Just come on.”

When they got to the ready room and Luke made an immediate beeline toward Biggs, Wedge knew it was more than just a world of hurt he was letting himself in for. Much more. Unusual given how often he’d had partners break up with him for not feeling enough for them. _You prefer that damned ship of yours to me,_ they’d said, more than one of them, more than once. This was maybe the first time he resented that fact, if only because he wouldn’t be in this predicament at all if that was true.

He ached just to look at the pair of them, their heads bending together, bright binaries sharing a joke, an understanding, a history. And the worst part was Wedge didn’t know how to stop it except to disengage entirely.

Another thing Wedge had never in his life done: disengage. Guess this was just a day for first times.

Wedge couldn’t say he liked it.

**Before**

The ship was ugly, an affront to good design and taste, but the way he was told, it was fast, it had survived the pull of a tractor beam, and it could escape something called a Death Star. Frankly, Wedge wanted to call bull on that, but it wasn’t worth the fight he was likely to get into for doing it.

Then again, they were all here to tell the tale. And he trusted the princess when she said she’d been on that Imperial monstrosity, that she wouldn’t let some kid and a smuggler spin tall tales. Maybe there was something to it. Even if he didn’t want to believe it.

“Hey,” he said, jogging toward one of them, the blond one, the kid, as he wandered around the hangar, “Skywalker, right?”

“Yeah,” he replied, looking so painfully young to Wedge’s eyes. Kind of like Biggs, even with a couple of years and a mustache on this one. Innocent still, but not for long. Not if he stayed here. He held his hand out for Wedge to shake. “Luke Skywalker.”

Wedge formed a fist with his hand, keenly aware of the grease on his palm, and scrubbed his hand against his flight suit before taking Luke’s. “Wedge Antilles.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Wedge nodded toward the X-wing Luke had stopped in front of. “You fly?”

“How’d you guess?”

“You’ve got the look.” Grabbing Luke by the shoulders, he marched him toward the far end of the room, back where the ready room was—and the spare uniforms. “We could use some help.”

“I don’t know—” Luke resisted, digging his heels into the deck. But the soles of his boots were worn smooth, soft probably, and Wedge pushed him forward with ease. _I don’t know if I can fly one of these things_.

“None of us did.” A lie: Wedge knew. He’d always been a pilot. Of course he knew. But most of these people weren’t. Maybe Luke wasn’t, but Wedge had intuition on his side and suspected he was like Wedge. Or Biggs. Or a few of the others who took to flying like they were born to it. They needed pilots desperately. “But this is bigger than you.”

“You’re kind of pushy, aren’t you?”

“A little bit,” Wedge agreed, tapping the code into the ready room’s locking mechanism. “That a problem?”

Luke laughed and it sounded like the sun cresting the horizon at daybreak. Biggs had told him that Tatooine had twin suns. That’s what Luke’s laugh sounded like, a twinned star system. It was enough to stop Wedge in his tracks for a moment. “No,” Luke said, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. “I suppose not.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Wedge said, pushing Luke into the room. “Let’s get you suited up.”

**After**

The squeal of TIEs squawked over the comms, slicing through the chatter and the screams and the explosions. The Death Star seemed to generate its own gravity, its own atmosphere. Space battles were silent usually. This… this was hell. Fire and death and overwhelming odds and space stations the size of moons. And the sounds. So many of them that Wedge was distracted as often as not, attention split in this direction and that, so many orders flying that it took every ounce of Wedge’s experience to keep his attention where it needs to be.

A trench run on the Empire’s preeminent weapon, so new nobody had known a damned thing about it until Princess Leia returned from the depths of its detention level. Nobody at Wedge’s level at least. The higher ups had probably been aware of it for a good long time.

And now Wedge was doing his level best to stop himself from accompanying Red Leader into the trench himself. Why the hell he’d ever want _Wedge_ to stay behind was beyond his comprehension.

“Easy on your right, Red Twelve,” Wedge called, witnessing Puck Naeco’s X-wing drifting dangerously close to the wall.

“Thanks, Red Two,” Naeco replied through a hiss of static.

Wedge shook his head. Unbelievable.

He wasn’t the guy to sit back and let this happen while the rest of them risked their lives. He wasn’t—

As he watched, Naeco’s ship exploded. Flaming shrapnel flying every which way from inside the fireball, bouncing off that wall he’d drifted toward. There wasn’t time to mourn him and he couldn’t let himself think about leaving Naeco behind here, what was left of him anyway. Even though that was exactly what he was doing.

“Easy, Red Two,” Biggs said, knowing, sympathy and frustration at war in his voice. Wedge knew Biggs was feeling the same way. “Just a little longer.”

“I hope not,” Wedge said. If they end up brought in, that meant Red Leader failed.

Wedge saw Red Leader make it through the gauntlet of shield generators, turrets, and TIEs. He saw him reach the exhaust port. He held his breath; he leaned forward. He saw the flash of Red Leader’s torpedoes firing.

He saw those torpedoes hit the trench.

A miss.

“Stay in position, Red Two,” Red Leader said, even though Wedge knew—he _knew_ —Dreis was signing his own death sentence. Wedge could’ve offered cover fire. He could’ve…

From this perspective, you could almost pretend the X-wing exploding looked like a firework.

“Prepare for attack run,” he said, cold. “You ready, Red Three?”

“Ready,” Biggs said.

“Red Five?”

“As I’ll ever be, Red Two,” Luke said.

Wedge sighed, blinking the sweat from his eyes, mumbling an old Corellian prayer he didn’t believe in just in case.

Trenches, Wedge decided, were the worst possible place for an X-wing to fight and Wedge sure as hell didn’t plan on ever doing it again if he could help it. Watching Biggs and Luke up ahead, he wondered just what they were all doing and how they could possibly succeed. It seemed impossible. Even in the wide span of space he usually fought in, he’d never felt quite this small.

A streak of blaster fire struck the bottom of the trench in front of Wedge, alerting him to the TIE presence behind him, the computer only trilling after the fact. He weaved left, acutely aware of how little maneuverability he had in here. His nerves sang with anguish and frustration at the situation they’d been forced into. Damn the Empire. Damn every person who helped construct this thing. Damn every person who ran it.

Wedge pulled up hard, twisting up and around, pushing his sublights for speed as he burst out of the trench and back into open space. In a race, an X-wing would always lose to a TIE, but X-wings had survivability on their side, survivability and precision. Lining up a shot, he took out the TIE, its pilot probably unaware that Wedge could do that. He didn’t bother hoping it hurt—the explosion was too quick to be anything but too merciful for the person behind the controls—and instead kept his eyes peeled for other ships.

And there, another TIE. Modified. Far different than the others. And far more skillfully piloted.

Nobody else was dying today. Not if Wedge could help it. He shot at it—for whatever good that did. The shots just ricocheted off the hull, pinging away, harmless.

“Bi—Red Three,” he said, swallowing. “Red Five. It’s no good.”

“I can do it,” Luke said.

Biggs huffed a laugh. “You heard the man, Red Two.”

Wedge bit his tongue, thoughts racing. That TIE was being flown by someone who knew what they were doing—no doubt better than Wedge, Biggs, and Luke all put together. Wedge was willing to take on just about anyone in a dogfight and even he was intimidated by the skill on display. And he had no idea who in the hell it even was.

But there was nothing he could do. They were here. This was their only shot. He had to let them do what they were going to do. “Okay,” Wedge said. “Force be with you.”

And then the laser fire from a much, much bigger gun shot past Wedge’s X-wing, struck that TIE in the wing. Mouth falling open, Wedge watched it spin away, somehow holding together still, starlight flashing off of it as it disappeared into the darkness.

Jubilant laughter echoed in his ears along with a handful of words Wedge hadn’t known he didn’t believe he’d hear until this moment they were said. “He got it!” Biggs said, barking another laugh.

Wedge’s stomach tightened and spun just like that TIE and twisted itself up in all sorts of ways he didn’t know was possible. His throat dried and it was only after a false start that he was able to speak again. “Let’s get out of here.”

A fourth voice issued over the comms, one Wedge didn’t recognize, and told Luke it was a great shot, said some other things that Wedge tuned out because _shit, shit, they did it. They’ve_ done _it._

**Later**

“You still owe me that drink,” Biggs said, blinding grin fixed in place, his eyes glassy with exuberance as he leaned against the bar, so far into Wedge’s space that it took all of Wedge’s self-control not to slip off his stool and walk away.

Instead, he lifted his glass to his lips and peered at Biggs, pointed and knowing. Behind them, a raucous round of laughter went up, probably from somewhere at one of the tables if the hands slapping some hard surface were anything to go by. Wedge had been thankful that everyone seemed too intent on company to sit at the bar, but now he realized his mistake.

Too late.

Wedge was never, ever too late.

But he’d left himself a target anyway.

“Does it really count when the race was rigged?” Wedge asked, his words feather-light and free of innuendo. He’d been flattered before, and he was still flattered now, but some of the shine had gone off knowing—

Knowing it didn’t—couldn’t—mean anything. It didn’t require much more than a few moments and maybe a pair of eyes to realize that Biggs and Luke were gone on each other. And Wedge was gifted with better eyes than most. There wasn’t room for Wedge in that. And he couldn’t even blame them.

“May I?” Biggs asked, palm caressing the stool next to Wedge, because he was a considerate guy who apparently asked for permission to sit.

“It’s a free cantina.” Hooking his boots in the rungs on his stool and grabbing the far side of the bar, he reached across and grabbed a glass, pulled the tap on one of the better ales. “Here you go.”

Biggs sipped and sighed, appreciative. Made Wedge wonder just what the hell they served on Tatooine that this could get a decent reaction out of the guy.

“Where’s Luke?” Wedge asked, because he couldn’t help himself and because he wanted to know and because he couldn’t bring himself to shy away from that.

Biggs’s features took on a soft quality, hazy and distant. Wedge would think it was annoying if it wasn’t so genuine. “Off arguing with that Solo guy, I think.” Shaking his head, he laughed. “Luke always did find friends in strange places.”

Wedge smirked and nudged Biggs in the side. “You know that from personal experience?”

“Ha.” But Biggs nodded. “I know you’re kidding, but you’re closer to the mark than you think.”

Wedge wanted to know more—and he didn’t. It wasn’t like he needed any more evidence that Luke was a good guy. He imagined a young, maybe awkward Biggs meeting a young, definitely awkward Luke and pretended it didn’t leave him envious to know he hadn’t been a part of that, that he couldn’t mean as much to either of them as they did to each other.

“You saved my life, Wedge,” Biggs said, more serious, drawing Wedge’s attention to him with little more than his tone of voice. “I saw what happened up there. That was some tight flying.”

Twisting his glass by the base, fingers wet with condensation, he shook his head. “Anyone would’ve done it,” he replied. “I just got lucky.”

“Luck can only take you so far,” Biggs said. “And anyway, I wanted to thank you, luck or no.” He looked like he wanted to say something more, but he refrained, occupying himself with his drink instead.

Wedge sighed, scratching at his cheek. He was lost, adrift. And his chest felt scraped out, hollow, empty. This wasn’t the first time Wedge had saved a squad mate, but he didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. “You’re welcome,” he said, awkward, not really knowing how to respond, but knowing he didn’t want to worry Biggs any with his—problem. “Guess you owe me one.”

A crooked smile pasted itself on Biggs’s face. His hand clapped onto Wedge’s back, lingering, warm, over his shoulder blade. “I think I can handle that.”

Wedge fought the urge to shrug Biggs’s hand off and he fought the urge to turn and take it in his own, lead him back to…

“You know what?” Wedge asked, sliding to his feet. He had to steady himself on the bar, the mixture of alcohol and post-battle come down working to take him off-balance. Breathing deeply, he found his feet. “I think I’m gonna turn in.”

“I’ll walk you back.” Ever the gentleman, Biggs grasped Wedge by the elbow, got his own feet underneath him.

“No, no.” This time, Wedge did shrug out of Biggs’s touch, bunching his shoulders and shuffling forward slightly. “Enjoy your drink.”

“Wedge—”

“I’ll see you in the morning for the debrief,” he said, calling back as he trudged toward the door. _Go find Luke,_ he thought. _You only get one night to enjoy yourself before it all sets in. And trust me, that’s not gonna be fun for you_.

“See you,” Biggs said, the words more an exhale than a proper response. It sounded weary and a little troubled and Wedge absolutely wanted to fix that, wished there was something he could do to help. But Wedge existed on a tilt now. Ever since Luke arrived. Frankly, Wedge wouldn’t be of much use to anyone until he adjusted.

The only thing he could think to do—the best thing that came to mind—was to step back, not get involved, _not_ offer the signals of interest that he so desperately wanted to give.

Maybe Biggs didn’t understand; maybe he didn’t notice anything amiss; maybe he didn’t care—or maybe he did. Wedge didn’t know anything and he didn’t know what he’d have done if he knew what Biggs thought. And whatever the case might be, it didn’t matter. Wedge at least could figure out that this was for the best.

*

When he walked into the ready room, it felt like walking into a mausoleum, a chill descending on him as he took in the faces around him. So few had made it and all of them staring back with haunted eyes, all sitting in pairs, like they couldn’t stand to be alone, but they didn’t have the wherewithal for more contact, couldn’t bring themselves to come together fully knowing they were missing so many.

He cleared his throat, gaze focusing on Luke’s knee where it pressed against Biggs’s about halfway up the rows of seats, completely visible from Wedge’s place at the front. They weren’t holding hands, but their fingers nearly tangled as they split an armrest.

“Let’s, uh,” Wedge said, lump lodging itself in his throat. It should’ve been Dreis here leading this meeting. He glanced at his chronometer and then lifted his head, scanning the room without really seeing anything except the misery on every face in the room, their total lack of interest in being here. “You know what? I saw pretty well what happened. Submit a written report if you think there’s anything I need to know. I’ll talk to General Dodonna.”

He dismissed them with a wave of his hand and fidgeted at the podium until everyone had filtered out into the hall—everyone except for Luke. And Biggs. No, they stood by the door, inseparable. And apparently determined to drive Wedge up the wall.

“Wedge,” Luke said, exchanging a look with Biggs. Biggs nodded in turn, encouraging. “You had our backs out there.”

 _That’s my job_ , Wedge thought, a yell clawing at his ribs, scrabbling to get out, gouging his insides for everything they were worth. _That’s my_ job _._ But instead Wedge said nothing. There was nothing _to_ say. He’d have their backs forever if that’s what it took. But there was no point in saying so.

Now, Luke did grab Biggs by the hand, wrapped his fingers around Biggs’s wrist, and tugged him forward, dragged him easily enough, like there was no one he’d rather have trailed behind. Like Wedge required the reminder...

Wedge kind of hated the podium he was standing at—it felt so professional, so cold, so distancing—but he couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate those qualities as they approached him. He needed distance. He needed… he needed a clear path to the door, an escape route.

Letting go of Biggs, Luke grabbed at Wedge’s shoulders, pulled him around the edge of the podium, Wedge’s hip catching it and nearly knocking it over, and pressed a chaste, tentative kiss to Wedge’s lips. There and gone so fast that it left Wedge’s head spinning.

“Let us have yours, too, huh?” Luke said.

 _That—what? No one’s ever ‘had my back’ that way before._ His eyes, wide and wild, found Biggs’s, amused and fond. Biggs then nodded and smirked and rolled his eyes. “I did lose a race for you,” he pointed out. “That means something, right?”

“I—” A shudder ran through Wedge and a shiver of want and his brain was not quite willing to make the connection that they—both of them, _both of them_ —wanted… they wanted…

They wanted what Wedge wanted.

“You mean…?” Wedge asked, pointing at himself, then at each of them. Just to be sure.

“Yeah, Wedge,” Luke said, wrapping his arm around Wedge’s shoulder, making Wedge bend forward to accommodate the force of Luke’s pull on him. Then, Biggs was grabbing hold of him, too, crooking his fingers into the loops on Wedge’s flight suit. Both of them working together to get Wedge to the door of the ready room.

“Just to be clear,” Wedge said, resisting just to see what they’d do, “I would have won that race regardless.”

Biggs laughed and so did Luke, mingling sounds that Wedge doubted he’d ever tire of. “If you say so,” Biggs said.

“I do,” Wedge answered, barely managing to keep from bursting out in surprised, grateful laughter. “I do say so.”

*

The next time they did a training exercise, it was the three of them racing one another. And Luke smoked both Biggs and Wedge, much to neither Biggs nor Wedge’s surprise.

“Holy shit,” Luke said, impressed self-awe pitching his voice higher. Wedge could hear the grin, the laugh, in his tone and shook his head in amusement as Luke made a not-very-sportsman-like corkscrew spin in his X-wing. “Did you see that? Where were you guys?”

“We let you win,” both Wedge and Biggs answered, their voices merging over the comms. Then Wedge added, “You know the drill.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Luke answered, sighing, aggrieved. “Drinks on me.”

Wedge smiled. “Yeah, rookie. Drinks on you.”


End file.
